


the whole ‘being dead’ thing

by littlesnowpea



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Broadway, Getting It On With Coworkers, Halloween, I Plead The Fifth, M/M, There May Not Be, There may be ghosts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:07:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27306769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlesnowpea/pseuds/littlesnowpea
Summary: The problem with having a showing of a musical based on a horror-comedy on Halloween night was that, no matter what, the show must go on.Even if props disappear.Even if the director was ready to kill half his actors.Even if the lead and supporting actor couldn’t stop fucking each other fortwo goddamn minutes.Live theater, folks. There ain’t nothing like it.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 22
Kudos: 48
Collections: Trick Or Pete 2020





	the whole ‘being dead’ thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SnitchesAndTalkers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnitchesAndTalkers/gifts).



> this is all snitches fault. and i’m obsessed with beetlejuice the musical. so maybe we’re both to blame.
> 
> happy samhain. the veil is thin and so is my patience.

“Where in the _hell_ is my wig?” 

Hayley’s voice was audible down three halls and into the dressing room and Patrick put down his water bottle and sighed into the corner where the ghost of Sondheim was shaking his head at him for accepting a role in this fucking show. 

“Hey, Hayley,” he said under his breath. “Good to see you, Hayley.”

“Hayley’s gonna be aggro for like, an hour,” Joe said, evidently not respecting Patrick’s under-the-breath rule. “I would just get used to it.”

“Wow,” Patrick said. “It’s almost like you’re a real cast member.”

“Your words hath wounded me,” Joe said sardonically. “Are you also bitchy that it’s Halloween?”

“No,” Patrick said. “Because I’m thirty years old. Is that what Hayley’s issue is?”

“Well,” Joe said. “She is seventeen.”

“Child actors,” Pete said, waltzing into the dressing room like he owned the place, slamming his locker open and shoving his oversized duffle bag inside. “They don’t make them like they used to.”

“You mean when they stuffed them full of cocaine to get them to cooperate?” Joe asked, watching Pete work with something like fascination. “The bag is bigger than the locker. How are you gonna get it to fit?”

“Practice and patience,” Pete replied, shooting a filthy wink at Patrick, who rolled his eyes.

“You’re late,” he told Pete. 

“Uh,” Joe said, frowning. “He’s right on time, actually.”

“I know,” Pete said, ignoring Joe. “Subway was late, and then my fuckin’ MetroCard wouldn’t work.”

“Shame,” Patrick said, opening his own locker and pulling out his water bottle. “Thought you were a professional.”

“I am,” Pete insisted.

“Are you guys missing where Pete’s not late?” Joe asked.

“You’re just gonna have to make up for lost time,” Patrick said. 

“I think I’m losing my mind,” Joe muttered.

“Absolutely,” Pete said.

\----

So, the ‘Pete and Patrick History’ went like this: neither had ever worked with the other on the Broadway circuit before. Patrick did his time dutifully serving in classical musicals while Pete flung his dick around in experimental plays and then they met on the set of Beetlejuice: the Musical and that was that. 

By ‘that was that’ Patrick of course meant that they couldn’t go a single day without humping each other like dogs in heat. 

No one accused Patrick of being poetic. 

“I can’t believe you won’t let me fuck you,” Pete whined for the third time, and Patrick considered ‘accidentally’ slamming his finger in the door on the way out of the extra makeup room being used for costume storage. It was not a particularly secure space, but over the past six months their level of privacy had gone from ‘three locks on the door’ to ‘does the door mostly close?’

“If you had been on time,” Patrick said, cheeks hot from trying to wrangle Pete’s impossibly tight jeans down off his hips. “And worn clothes removable by the average human being, we might be in a different position now.”

“Literally,” Pete said, giggling, and Patrick rolled his eyes before giving Pete’s jeans a hard yank. “Fuck.”

Patrick licked up his palm instead of saying anything sarcastic, which he thought spoke to his growth or something, and pulled his cock out of his pants. He wrapped his hand around them both and Pete dropped his forehead to Patrick’s shoulder, groaning when Patrick didn’t give him any time to savor the moment, just started jerking hard and fast, rushing them towards a messy completion that would tide them both over for approximately two hours and twenty four minutes. 

“Patrick,” Pete gasped, and Patrick indulged him, twisting his wrist and turning his head to tug lightly at his earlobe. He could smell cologne--day old, not fresh, and there was something deeply wrong with Patrick that knowing Pete hadn’t showered since yesterday--the last time they fucked--turned him on faster than anything else. 

That was the only reason he came first, gasping and panting, and he’d testify to that in court. Pete didn’t seem to care either way, just whined, high pitched and embarrassing, and came too, dripping onto the tile floor.

They leaned against each other for a long moment, each one holding the other up, until their breathing had mostly returned to normal. Pete huffed out a laugh, sounding a little sex drunk, and smacked an obnoxious kiss onto Patrick’s cheek before tucking himself back into his pants. 

“Better get mic’d,” he said, winking, and Patrick rolled his eyes.

“Your come is on the floor,” he pointed out, zipping his own pants up. “Pete. Your come.”

“No one will notice,” Pete said airily.

“ _Pete_ ,” Patrick said, exasperated, but Pete was running a hand through his hair and practically strutting towards the door. Patrick rolled his head back to look at the sky--why exactly was he so eager to jump this asshole’s bones?--before sighing and following Pete’s lead.

Hey.

It wasn’t _his_ come.

\----

If anyone asked, Patrick’s ready-made excuse for why he wasn’t in the wings until the last four lines of _The Whole “Being Dead” Thing_ was that he needed to slip into character.

The real reason was that watching Pete throw himself into character and own the stage did things to him that were inappropriate and that his costume did nothing to hide. 

Nobody ever asked--well, Vicky gave him a side-eye every so often, but it wasn’t like he was ever late, so she couldn’t exactly complain--so his shameful secret remained intact. 

He mostly stayed in the corner of the greenroom, half-listening to the song and gripping a water bottle he didn’t actually drink from so hard that one day he thought he might actually crack the metal. It was fine. This was _fine_. Plenty of people had flings with coworkers, alright? It didn’t have to be a big deal or anything. 

Pete hit the note in _bulletproof_ and all at once, with the sound Patrick’s brain made whenever Pete’s mouth was on his cock, the lights shut off in the greenroom. 

From the gasps and screams in the theater, and the trailing off of the orchestra and Pete, the lights shut off out there, too, and he sighed, feeling like it was dredged from the depths of his soul. 

Delays were his _favorite thing_.

“Ughhhhh,” Hayley said loudly, from somewhere down the hall. Patrick imagined her collapsing over her very own fainting couch, goth costume and all, and fought a grin as he felt along the wall for one of the greenroom chairs. Might as well get comfortable. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he heard Andy say into his portable mic. “We seem to be having a power issue. Please stay in your seats until we resolve it. I apologize for the delay.”

Well, it was a legit delay if the director himself was reassuring the crowd. Patrick sighed again, leaning back in his chair. This could take five minutes or five years and Patrick didn’t know which one he preferred. 

He jumped when he felt a hand on his knee.

“Seriously?” he hissed, blinking into the dark. “You are a Broadway professional, you know power outages mean you need to stay on stage!”

Pete didn’t reply, but Patrick heard shuffling as he assumed Pete moved closer on his knees, and Pete’s hand slid a little higher. Patrick pointedly scooted away. 

“Pete,” he said, trying to sound serious. “We are in the _middle of the greenroom_ , the power could come back on _any moment_. Are you crazy?”

Pete still didn’t answer. Patrick could hear him breathing, and his hand was heavy on Patrick’s thigh. The silence was thick between them, and Patrick’s own breath was caught painfully in his throat. He swallowed past it, gasping a little as Pete’s hand tightened almost painfully. 

“Pete?” he asked, a little afraid now. He reached out, towards the space in front of him, hand shaking, and flinched in shock when the lights turned back on, the electrical hum of the power starting back up making Patrick blink in shock. 

He looked back to where he swore Pete had been kneeling, one hand gripping Patrick’s thigh, and felt like he’d swallowed his own heart when all he saw was the carpeted floor and an empty room.

\----

“Okay,” Patrick said. “But I _swear_ \--”

“Yes, you’ve said,” Pete interrupted. “A ghost almost gave you head. Sexy. Incredible. You should tell that story at your wedding. Can I fuck you? Intermission isn’t forever.”

“Your Beetlejuice makeup isn’t your best look,” Patrick told him, and Pete made a face at him. “Can you be serious for like, half a second?”

“One Mississippi.”

“Did you leave the stage during the blackout?”

“For the fifth time, no,” Pete said in exasperation. “And it was probably Joe or someone messing with you. We aren’t exactly subtle. I’m pretty sure Andy has a spray bottle labeled _In case Patrick and Pete fuck too long._ ”

“That’s mortifying.”

“So will you please stop talking about your magical ghost blowjob and let me fuck you?” Pete asked, as if Patrick hadn’t said a word. Patrick sighed and undid his pants. Pete fistpumped. Patrick reevaluated why he ever let this man’s mouth anywhere near his cock. 

“I think you’re jealous,” Patrick said, before gasping a little as Pete kind of rudely started with two slicked up fingers, which only cemented the jealous theory, if you asked Patrick. “Are you?”

“I’m jealous I can’t turn off my hearing at will,” Pete grunted. Patrick rolled his eyes. 

“You love me, really,” he said, and Pete pulled his fingers out, pressing a kiss to the back of Patrick’s neck. 

“You wish,” he said, but he couldn’t hide the undeniable fondness. Plus, like, Patrick was eighty percent sure people didn’t fuck each other in closets for six months if they weren’t at least a little bit fond of each other. Patrick let Pete push him onto the couch on his knees, bracing himself on the back of it and looking over his shoulder. 

“Your makeup needs a touchup.”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Pete said, and pushed in. Patrick buried his head in his arms to muffle his shout and then groaned as Pete didn’t even wait a second, just snapped his hips forward, making Patrick’s cock rub against the rough fabric of the couch, smearing pre-come everywhere. A fact Patrick would worry about later. 

“Fuck,” he whispered under his breath, and dig his nails into the upholstery when Pete changed his angle slightly. “ _Fuck_.”

“Yep,” Pete managed, and Patrick laughed deliriously, dropping his head to his arms and groaning again, pushing back to meet Pete’s thrusts as best he could. God. One day, when he was a washed up actor and no longer getting hired and inevitably wrote a memoir about the glory days of Broadway, he was going to include the whole _short rounds of anal sex in closets during intermission with men he may or may not be interested in romantically_. It was gonna be a bestseller.

Until then—

“Jesus,” Pete groaned, and Patrick could tell he came, despite the latex-free condom between them. (Safety first.) Now that was just rude. He moved to shove a hand between his own still-achingly-hard cock and the couch as Pete dropped his slightly-sweaty head to Patrick’s shoulder—probably smearing white makeup on his costume shirt as he did—but Pete displayed a remarkable ability to multitask and beat him to it. 

Dexterous fingers wrapped around his cock and Patrick groaned his orgasm into a couch that had probably seen generations of hookups just as the bells signalling the two minute warning until the end of intermission went off.

Pete patted him on the shoulder awkwardly.

“Good game,” he said. Patrick twisted his head to shoot Pete his best glare. “Good fuck?”

“Get out of here,” Patrick said, and Pete grinned and winked before zipping his pants up and obeying, leaving Patrick to flop onto his back, sighing, and consider again just how he got himself into this situation.

\----

“Patrick.”

“Whatever it is, it can wait,” Patrick said. He was staring into the mirror and reevaluating his life choices. It was very important. Plus, he had like five minutes until he was due in the wings, so this was basically sacred time for him. Unless the theater was burning down--and really, even then, because five minutes was five minutes--he was not to be interrupted. 

“It really can’t,” Joe said. Patrick groaned and turned around, fixing The Worst Castmate In The World with his best glare. 

Joe was unperturbed. 

“What,” Patrick said, when Joe did not immediately explain. Joe had the audacity to roll his eyes and hold up a rose. 

“This came for you,” he said. Patrick arched an eyebrow. 

“A cast gift?” he asked. “What is this, high school theater?”

“There’s a note,” Joe said. 

“Goody,” Patrick said. “I’m failing to see how this is so urgent you felt the need to interrupt my meditation.”

“It’s not meditation, it’s you questioning your taste in men and you do it every show,” Joe said impatiently. “It’s from your _dad_. I’m dying to know what it says.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Patrick said immediately. “It is not. This is a fucked up prank. Who’s behind this, Brendon? Is he sitting in Sadville, crying because he hasn’t gotten to be the understudy yet?”

“Read it so we can figure it out,” Joe said, shaking the rose for emphasis. “Otherwise I’m gonna assume it’s a letter from the other side.”

“This show has officially begun to rot your brain,” Patrick told him, but held his hand out for the rose anyway. Grinning gleefully, Joe slapped the rose into Patrick’s outstretched palm, ignoring the hiss of pain then the thorns stabbed Patrick, and pulled a slightly wrinkled envelope out of his pocket. “Wow. You actually didn’t open it. I think this is a record for you and your nosiness.”

“Opening someone else’s mail is a federal crime,” Joe said. 

“Yeah, not sure they’re interested in cast gifts,” Patrick said. He dropped the rose onto the makeup counter and tore the envelope open. He didn’t look too hard at his name scrawled on the outside--it was disconcertingly similar to his dad’s handwriting. Patrick told himself firmly that it had been ten years since he’d seen his name penned out like that, and he was an impressionable young boy. 

Unfolding the actual note, however, proved to be far more difficult to ignore. The loops of cursive on his name grabbed his heart, and yeah, this prank was _beyond_ fucked up, because his dad had begun every single card he’d ever written to Patrick like this. Patrick would know. He had every single one in a shoebox in his closet, waiting for a time he could stand to look at them again. 

_Dear Patrick,_

_I know I said you should have a backup plan when you told me you were going to be on Broadway. I take that back. You belong on Broadway, and nowhere else. I am so proud of you._

This was unfair. Patrick wanted to stop reading, because whoever decided to do this to him, to send him this and to stab him in the heart in the middle of the show was beyond a monster, more than cruel, because Patrick could imagine hearing his dad say this, and he wanted nothing more than to have his dad in the audience of one--just one--of his performances. 

_Just know I’ve seen all your shows and if I were there, you’d never get me to shut up. I might not be with you in real life, but I’m always with you in spirit. I love you._

_Dad_

_PS: I like Pete._

Patrick blinked rapidly, trying to force back tears, swallowing hard and praying his voice sounded normal. He folded the letter back up with trembling hands, sliding it into the inner pocket of his suit for lack of a better, more private place, and cleared his throat. 

“What a stupid prank,” he muttered, and Joe huffed. “Don’t people have better things to do?”

“You’re no fun,” Joe complained. Patrick didn’t reply, turning his back and pretending to double check his costume in the mirror. After a staring contest with the back of Patrick’s neck, Joe huffed and stomped out, leaving Patrick to exhale shakily in the quiet dressing room, feeling that ache come back. 

“Dad?” he whispered quietly, voice shaking. As if in response, a soft wind blew past him, just enough to ruffle his hair and catch his breath in his chest as he heard his cue to be in the wings, waiting for his turn onstage.

\----

“Usually,” Pete said from his knees, squinting up at Patrick. “You’re much more interested when I say I’m gonna blow you.”

“Sorry,” Patrick said, feeling a little vacant. Pete raised an eyebrow, but when Patrick didn’t elaborate, he evidently decided the blowjob was a lost cause and stood, shaking out the striped pants and crossing his arms. 

“Okay,” Pete said. “So, spill.”

“It’s fine,” Patrick said. “You don’t have to waste your time listening to me. You can get your dick sucked by someone hotter.”

He ignored the petulant growl in his heart at the idea of anyone else even coming near Pete’s dick. They weren’t in _love_ for Christ’s sake.

“First of all,” Pete said, sounding slightly amused. “You’re the only castmate I sleep with. Not that we do a whole lot of sleeping. Second of all, I asked, therefore it’s not a waste of my time. Third of all, talk to me before I have to go back on stage and try and kill everyone.”

“Do you believe in ghosts?” Patrick asked. Pete blinked at him.

“Not where I thought this was going,” he said. “Sure? Sometimes?”

“My dad died,” Patrick said. “Not recently. Ten years ago. And I got a cast gift--which I didn’t even think were a _thing_ on Broadway--with a letter apparently from my dad. I’m like ninety percent sure it’s a prank, but it really fucking sounds like him, and the writing is a dead match.”

“Okay,” Pete said, cocking his head. “What did it say?”

“That he was proud of me,” Patrick said. “He never got to see me on Broadway. It’s strange, I guess.”

“Where is it?” Pete asked. “Can I see it?”

Patrick wondered why it was so goddamn easy to reach into his pocket and hand over the letter. Why he had zero reservations, zero fears. It felt like the simplest thing in the world to watch Pete, looking completely ridiculous dressed as Beetlejuice, unfold a letter that may or may not have been sent by the ghost of Patrick’s _dead father_ and okay, Patrick might be going crazy.

Pete’s forehead was wrinkled as he looked down at the letter. When he finally tore his gaze away and looked up, his expression was strange. Patrick couldn’t describe it. He looked like he was struggling to find words before he handed the letter back and cleared his throat. 

“That--that’s not a letter,” he said, and Patrick raised an eyebrow.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked, dumbfounded. A quick glance confirmed that yes, his father’s writing was still there, so he had no idea what _Pete_ was on about. “You didn’t see it?”

“No,” Pete said, looking at the paper like it might bite him. “I saw--”

“Hey, Beetlejuice? Adam?” Andy stuck his head into the dressing room, exasperation all over his face. “If you could grace us with your presence backstage so you don’t miss your cue, that would be _stellar_ , thanks! This is Broadway! Thank you!”

Andy didn’t wait around, just stalked away, muttering under his breath. Pete swallowed hard and shook his head.

“Tell you after,” he said, and leaned in to kiss Patrick, short and fierce, before turning on his heel to race to his mark. 

Patrick folded his letter back up with shaking hands and followed him on feet that felt like they were made of lead. 

\----

Patrick was...aware of Pete’s presence the entire rest of the show. There was no other way to explain it. Yes, of course he always registered that Pete shared the stage with him, of course he did, but it was like Pete had this energy Patrick couldn’t avoid. He felt like the entire audience was watching them and them alone, and instead of finding it invigorating, Patrick felt goosebumps crawl up his spine.

Maybe he was taking the whole _performance on Halloween_ thing a bit too seriously. 

He was pretty sure he said all his lines and hit all his notes and took his bows, but the next thing he was really aware of was standing back in the dressing room, trading his costume for street clothes, sudden and complete exhaustion clinging to his bones. 

He wasn’t sure if he’d stay awake the entire subway ride into Queens, and wasn’t that a strange development. 

“Hey,” Pete said from behind Patrick, and Patrick jumped, turning and facing Pete, for the first time entirely unsure of what to say. For his part, Pete looked like he was in a similar dilemma. His face was pink from scrubbing the makeup off, though his hair was still thick with product, and he had his bag slung over his shoulder. 

“Hey,” Patrick said quietly. “Good show.”

“You too,” Pete said. It was stilted, awkward. Not them. Not them at all. Pete’s eyes were tired but still bright and lovely, and God did Patrick just want this strange, strange night to be over. 

“It’ll be a miracle if I don’t fall asleep in the subway,” Patrick joked feebly. Pete huffed out a small laugh anyway, shifting on his feet, and the silence grew between them, so long that Patrick was about to say _goodnight, then_ before Pete spoke again.

“I live in Manhattan,” he offered. “Shorter ride than Queens, if you think you can stay awake that long.”

Patrick stared at him, just barely refraining from openly gaping. 

“Are you inviting me over?” he asked finally, voice little better than a croak. “Is that what you’re doing? A sleepover?”

Pete winced a little but bit his lip and took a deep breath and powered forward. 

“Your letter,” he said, and Patrick blinked and the roller coaster change in topics. He nodded slowly and Pete exhaled shakily. “It told me something different. I assume also from your dad. But I’m not sure.”

“What did it say?” Patrick asked. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but at the same time he really did want to know. His heart skipped a beat in his chest.

“It said _Just tell him already_ ,” Pete said, like he was reciting something. 

Patrick frowned. 

“Tell him what?” he asked. “Who?”

Pete closed his eyes for a long moment, like he was praying for strength, before opening them again. 

“God, you’re pretty,” he said. “But you can be so stupid sometimes.”

“What?” Patrick asked, but didn’t manage to get another word out because Pete was kissing him, bag falling to the floor with a thump, arm winding around his waist, pulling him close. Everything dropped from Patrick’s mind like gravity was in free fall as he kissed back, fisting his hands in Pete’s oversized sweater, feeling like little electric shocks were coursing through him every time their lips connected. 

“Oh,” Patrick managed when they broke apart. Pete snorted. 

“Yeah, _oh_ ,” he mocked fondly, arm still around Patrick’s waist. He pressed his forehead to Patrick’s for a long moment. 

“So,” Pete said. “About coming home with me?”

“I guess it’s time you made an honest man out of me,” Patrick said, grinning. The dressing room lights flickered once, then went out completely, and Pete dropped his head to Patrick’s shoulder and laughed. 

“C’mon,” he said. “Let’s go, before your blowjob ghost comes back. I’m not good at sharing.”

“Hey,” Patrick said, taking Pete’s hand when he offered it. “I’m still not convinced it wasn’t you.”

“We have all night,” Pete said. “I can convince you.”

“Shut up,” Patrick said, and shut the stage door behind them.

The dressing room lights came back on.

\-----

**Author's Note:**

> smalltalktorture.tumblr.com


End file.
